


Habit

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Day 3 - Ties, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Same-Sex Marriage, Ties & Cravats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I can’t go out without my tie tied,' Yamamoto points out with the tone of a man being eminently reasonable." Yamamoto comes to Gokudera for help, and Gokudera helps him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habit

Gokudera doesn’t answer the knock right away. Something about the sound gives it away, the rhythm of the raps too fast or the last-minute timing of the arrival that tells him exactly who it is without needing to hear a voice or see a face. He stares straight into the mirror, watching his own expression go heavy with resigned expectation as he tugs his cuffs straight and waits for the inevitable follow-up.

It comes a few seconds later, just as he’s tipping his head back so he can pull his silver jacket farther forward on his shoulders. He can almost predict it to the moment, is opening his mouth to respond even as he hears the “Hayato?” chirped carefully against the edge of the door.

“Go away,” he calls without looking away from the clean lines of his reflection. “I will see you in all of ten minutes, Takeshi, for once in your life be patient.”

“Aww, let me in,” Yamamoto pleads. Gokudera can imagine him on the other side of the door, his forehead tipped in to bump against the frame and his palm laid flat against the middle of the door like he can push and let himself past the lock. “I need your help.”

Gokudera’s hands go still, frozen in their unnecessary fiddling with his picture-perfect clothes. “I swear to god, Takeshi, if you--”

“It’s my tie,” Yamamoto says over him, and Gokudera shuts his eyes and heaves a sigh made no less heavy by his expectation of this exact situation.

“Of all the people,” and he’s getting to his feet, moving towards the door with no real choice in the matter. “I am the actual last person you should be coming to for this, on today of  _all_  days.” He leans in towards the edge, imagines he’s mirroring Yamamoto on the other side. “We’re not supposed to see each other until everyone else does.”

“I can’t go out without my tie tied,” Yamamoto points out with the tone of a man being eminently reasonable.

“Find someone else,” Gokudera says, even though he can feel his resolve crumbling as he starts to smile against the weight of the door. “I am not going to do this for you today.”

“But Hayato…” Yamamoto pleads, drawing the word long and wanting. “I haven’t seen you all day, I miss you.”

“It’s only been a night and the morning,” Gokudera offers, but he is smiling helplessly now, so bright he’s sure it’s coming through in his voice. “You’re an idiot.”

A pause, silence so loaded Gokudera can all but hear Yamamoto shuffling through possible excuses. Then: “Hey, isn’t that tradition only supposed to apply to  _brides_? And since neither of us is--”

“Shit,” Gokudera snaps, fumbling with the lock so he doesn’t hear the end of Yamamoto’s sentence. There’s a moment of fighting with the unfamiliar latch; then the door is coming open, swinging in too-fast from the weight against the other side, and Yamamoto is falling, stumbling forward so he nearly drops into Gokudera’s arms before he can catch his balance.

“Oh,” he says, and he’s smiling all over his face, glowing so bright with happiness Gokudera doesn’t even see his clothes, for a moment. “Hayato.”

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, response to what he’s about to do more than to Yamamoto’s words, and he’s leaning in, his fingers fitting into the perpetually-rumpled dark of the other’s hair to hold him still for a kiss. Yamamoto sighs against his mouth, sounding like a man taking the first true inhale of his life, and Gokudera’s fingers go slack and gentle for a moment. The soft of Yamamoto’s mouth is too familiar, the contact aching with the sharp pain-pleasure of coming home after a long trip away, and it doesn’t make any sense that spending an evening apart should have this effect but apparently there is no sense left between the two of them. Yamamoto’s hands are fitting in against Gokudera’s waist, he’s all but purring satisfaction, and when Gokudera lingers he can feel Yamamoto’s mouth coming open as if in reflex, offering enough distraction to guarantee their late arrival.

Gokudera drags himself backwards with some effort, forming his hand into a shove at Yamamoto’s shoulder to hold him back at a somewhat safer distance while he takes a proper breath of air. “ _No_ ,” and he’s speaking sharply as much to the thrum of his own heart as to the hazy affection blurring Yamamoto’s gaze out-of-focus. “No, no, we have places to be right now.”

Yamamoto licks his lips, takes a breath that sounds like it costs him active effort. “Later?”

“You fucking idiot,” Gokudera says, his hand forming into a fist at the expensive smoothness of Yamamoto’s jacket. “Give me the stupid tie.”

Yamamoto hands it over obediently, even manages to stand up straight and get his hands safely to his sides while Gokudera tries to remember how to maintain a frown. His hands are thrumming with adrenaline, the motion invisible to sight but tangible in the rush of heat under his skin, fluttering in the pulse in his throat and making his breath impossible to catch. He moves more sharply than he intends, pulling at the collar of Yamamoto’s pristine white shirt with more force than he ought, but Yamamoto doesn’t protest this rough treatment, just tips his head back to grant Gokudera better access to the fabric. This is a distraction in itself -- the smooth line of his throat leading down to the white of his shirt, the motion along it when he swallows -- but Gokudera resists the impulse to touch the warmth of the other’s skin, keeps his hands and his mouth to himself while he smooths the tie in his hands and loops it around Yamamoto’s neck.

“I can’t believe you still don’t know how to do this,” he says, speaking aloud as the best means to keep his thoughts from more dangerous paths. The motion is familiar, experience of this precise action making the loops nearly as easy in reverse as they are when he’s tying his own. “You wear a tie  _all the time_ , you really should have learned this years ago when I taught you the  _first_  time.”

Yamamoto’s laugh comes fast, easy and warm to fill the quiet corners of the room. “It always looks better when you do it for me.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera sighs, cinches the knot up against the line of Yamamoto’s throat. “You just want an excuse to make me do it for you.”

Yamamoto hums, offering no kind of negation to this claim as Gokudera wraps his fingers against the turned-up collar to flip it back down and into place. Gokudera would be irritated, usually, snap some argument-starting comment that Yamamoto would laugh off, and then they could comfortably not-quite bicker for a good hour or two. But his hands are shaking more badly, now, nerves and adrenaline strong enough in his blood that even habitual frustration can’t override them, and then Yamamoto tips his chin down and he looks good, he looks  _amazing_ , the dark lines of his black suit setting off the soft shadows of his hair and brightening the glow of his eyes. The edge of white at his wrists catches Gokudera’s eyes, pulls his attention down to the easy curl of Yamamoto’s hands at his sides, to the band of plain silver against his finger waiting to be replaced with gold, and he feels very suddenly like he might be about to pass out.

“Oh god.” He tightens his hold on Yamamoto’s shoulders, shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe we’re about to do this.”

Yamamoto hums wordless appreciation, his hand coming up to settle against the curve of Gokudera’s back and press against the dark silver of the other’s coat. Gokudera can feel the catch of lips against the top of his head, the damp of the other’s mouth skimming over the smooth fall of his hair.

“I love you,” Yamamoto says, simple and as easy as he has always said the words, like their sincerity makes the confession straightforward and effortless. “I always have.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Gokudera says against the clean black of the other’s jacket. “I can’t believe I’m marrying you.”

He can feel Yamamoto laugh, sounding startled and delighted at once. “I keep thinking you’re going to change your mind.”

“Don’t be stupid, baseball idiot,” Gokudera growls, falling back on old insults under the pressure of the moment. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

“That’s good,” Yamamoto says. “It’d be awful to go in there without you.”

“Shit,” Gokudera sighs, because they do have to go, Tsuna and Bianchi and Shamal and Tsuyoshi are all waiting, they really are going to be late now. He persuades his hand to go loose at Yamamoto’s shoulder, lets his hold fall until he can close his fingers too-tight on Yamamoto’s free hand. The other doesn’t protest the pressure in word or action, just shifts his hand to interlace their fingers as easily as if they do this every day. When Gokudera pulls back to look up Yamamoto is smiling, the warmth of his smile making him look like himself even in the unusual tidiness of his clothes and the neat knot of the tie up at his collar.

Gokudera reaches out to touch it, trails his fingers gently over the smooth silk. His stomach is in free-fall, his throat tight as if he’s choking on his own nerves, but the tie is soft to the touch, and Yamamoto’s hand is warm in his, and when he takes a breath he thinks he can move without falling.

They ought to go out. There is a roomful of people waiting for them, an aisle empty and awaiting the pattern of their steps. But Gokudera pauses for a moment, draws his fingers up to push at Yamamoto’s chin, and when the other tips his head back Gokudera leans in to press his lips to the warm skin just above Yamamoto’s collar. That gets him a laugh, movement as Yamamoto tries to come back in for another kiss, but Gokudera is moving already, stepping sideways for the door and dragging Yamamoto with him.

“You can kiss me in a minute,” he says as they move down the hallway at more of a jog than a walk. “Just be patient.”

It’s worth the wait, even if Yamamoto is so on-edge that in the end he is ducking in to press his mouth to Gokudera’s while the minister is still halfway through granting them permission to do so. It gets a laugh from the audience, a giggle that sweeps out into the watchers, but for once in his life Gokudera is too distracted to worry about who’s watching. The ring on his finger is warmer than any of his usual jewelry, his heart is racing in his chest, and by the time Yamamoto lets him go Gokudera is smiling as irrepressibly wide as his new husband.


End file.
